


Cradle Songs of Comfort and Bones Gnawed By Teeth

by etheratisha



Series: Black Blood [1]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Corvosider - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Vampire Turning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-06-21 13:44:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15559011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etheratisha/pseuds/etheratisha
Summary: The Abbey of the Everyman warns against the many horrors of the Outsider. Corvo has never been particularly religious, never much thought of the Abbey.  He wasn’t sure he even believed in the dark god the Abbey preached against. But there is no denying the existence of that god now, not when those black black eyes are looking down at him.





	1. Black Eyes and Black Blood

**Author's Note:**

> So... in my opinion, there are clearly not enough Dishonored vampire AUS, especially considering the game practically has vampire AU written all over it in huge glowing letters. So I'm writing my own.  
> Note: A decent amount of the Outsider's dialogue is taken either from in-game dialogue or dialogue from the cinematic trailer.

    The Abbey of the Everyman warns against the many horrors of the Outsider. They say he is a dark creature, a monstrous thing birthed from the shadows of the Void to devour the souls of men. They say he lurks in dreams, with eyes like slick pools of oil and the force of an ocean storm in the face of a handsome youth, a boy with dark hair and porcelain pale flesh. He whispers to dreamers, his voice echoing with crackling music and mournful whalesong. He smiles with sharp teeth and to hear him laugh is to fall to madness. They say to dream of him is to lose your soul, to look into those black black eyes and forget oneself, lost for eternity in those black depths.

    To be Marked by the Outsider is to become something _other_. In whispers the Abbey speaks of the Marked, the twisted soulless things the Outsider touches and takes a part of, only to _give_ something back to them in return. They say the Outsider’s Marked are fey creatures, Void-touched, inhuman. Though they look like men it is only a mask made from the shell of what they were before they were changed. They possess all sorts of unholy and twisted magicks, able to move through space faster than the eye can follow or even meld into the shadows unseen or heard until the shadows themselves move to snatch men away into the dark. No matter their dark gifts, the one thing they all share is the _hunger_ , the thirst for the blood of men. With teeth like knives, they drain men of blood until they are but empty husks, shriveled and dry. They say this hunger is never sated, that they will kill and feed until one manages to burn them until they are nothing but ashes.

    Corvo has never been particularly religious, never much thought of the Abbey. He was rather skeptical of the Overseers in their gruesome masks and their hatred of the Outsider. He wasn’t sure he even believed in the dark god the Abbey preached against.

    But there is no denying the existence of that god now, not when those black black eyes are looking down at him. The god before him is wreathed in shadows and pale as moonlight, and Corvo can’t help but wonder if those oil black eyes can see into his soul.

    “My dear Corvo,” the Outsider, for the being in front of him can be no one else, croons,  “What a sad hand fate has dealt you. The beloved Empress dead, her precious daughter Emily lost somewhere in the city, and everyone thinks you’re the killer, but we know what really happened, don’t we? The Loyalists’ gave you the means to escape Coldridge, to escape execution. In the days to come, Corvo, you will play a pivotal role. This is why I have chosen you and drawn you into the Void.”

    Fingers as cold as ice beneath his chin, tilting his head up, the god leans towards him. “I offer you a gift to help you on your way. Do you accept?”

    Lost in the depths of the Outsider’s eyes, the god’s cold fingers upon his face, he knows there is only one answer. Whatever the Abbey preaches, the Outsider is something holy, _divine_ , and who is Corvo to refuse the gift of a god?

    The Outsider smiles, his teeth like any man’s, except for two delicately pointed, infinitely sharp fangs.

    “My _dear_ Corvo…” the god coos, as Corvo lets his head fall to the side, his neck bared to the deity. There is a flash of pain when those fangs sink into his flesh, but it is washed away by the wave of pure _ecstasy_ that follows. His eyes flutter shut and he finds himself clinging to the shoulders of the god, the god’s own arms wrapped around his waist, impossibly strong, his knees suddenly weak and a moan slipping past his lips as the god drinks the blood flowing from his neck. He can feel a trickle of wetness soaking into the collar of his shirt, hyper-aware of every sensation, the feel of the god ice cold against him, the feel of his heart pumping blood into the god’s mouth.

    When the deity finally pulls away, Corvo draws in a shuddery breath, nearly a gasp. He can feel his heart trembling feebly in his chest, struggling to beat. He feels faint, light like gravity is beginning to loosen. He is nearly limp cradled in the Outsider’s arms, in the embrace of a god.

    “Fascinating.” the Outsider whispers and Corvo hears him as though they were under water. His blood is bright crimson on the Outsider’s lips, smears of it around his mouth and then the Outsider’s wrist is above him, the god’s blood is as black as his eyes as it drips onto Corvo’s lips. His tongue flicks out to taste it and he shudders. The wrist is pressed against his open mouth and he cannot help the needy sound he makes as he struggles for the strength to suck more of the oil black nectar from the deity’s veins. The black blood is cold as ice and he can feel its chill seeping into his veins, into his _bones_ . He shivers and shudders in the god’s arms, his own hands clutching the Outsider’s wrist to his mouth with surprising strength. There’s a sudden sharp pain in his left hand, a burning _heat_ , so shockingly different from the cold that he jerks back with a gasp. There is a mark on his hand glowing ethereal blue. He tears his eyes away from the startling and strangely mesmerizing sight of it, when the Outsider draws his thumb across Corvo’s lips in a caress, smearing the blood with an expression that looks almost tender.

    “My mark. There are forces in the world and beyond the world, great forces that men call ‘magic’, and now these forces will serve your will. In the days that follow, your trials will be great, Corvo. To help you in your journey I give you this:” in the deity’s hand a heart takes shape, stitched and held together by clockwork, the heart beats and its gears turn, “the Heart of a living thing, molded by my hands. With this heart, you will hear many secrets, and it will guide you toward my shrines and other places where the Void bleeds into the world, no matter how they may be hidden.” The heart disappears in wisps of shadows and Corvo can feel the weight of it suddenly beneath his coat over his own heart, beating in tandem with his own.

    “How you use what I have given you falls upon you, as it has to the others before you. And now, I return you to your world, but know that I will be watching with great interest.”

    Corvo, suddenly inexplicably tired beyond measure, sighs as the god’s icy fingers, no longer seeming as cold as they were before, carefully brush over his eyelids as they slide closed. As he slips into the oblivion of unconsciousness, he wonders if he imagines the brush of the god’s lips against his forehead.


	2. Heartbeats of Woe and Songs of Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why am I so cold? Listen- I can hear their every thought.

When Corvo wakes, he’s never felt more ill in his life. His whole body shudders and shakes with a chill so sharp it burns. His insides feel like they are twisting around themselves, writhing within him, the feeling so visceral, he suddenly worries he will burst open like the poor souls he’d seen in Karnaca infested with blood flies. His left-hand burns so fiercely it was as if he had stuck it into an open flame. Time is meaningless, he has no idea how much of it passes while he’s tangled in this web of suffering and agony, be it seconds or hours or days. 

The whole of the horror ends. The illness and pain leaving him so suddenly all he can do is gasp and twitch helplessly in his bed while he readjusts to the sudden change. Sensations return to him slowly. The hard lumps in the mattress beneath him, the sweat clinging to his skin, the stale smell of cheap alcohol and dog. The Hound Pits Pub. He remembers now where he is, taking a breath to calm himself. As he breathes in again his breath hitches, the frantic thumping of his heart is quiet, he should hear the rushing of the blood in his ears after such a moment of frantic panic, but even as he brings a shaking hand to his neck to check he knows, the heart in his chest is as silent as the grave. Fingers pressed to the point of his pulse find no reassuring beat. He lifts his left hand up before his eyes. The mark is there, sharp black lines that flare teal and gold with a surge of magic that makes him suck in another stuttering breath, a flare of pain making itself known in his gums, an ache that’s source Corvo discovers with a quick run of his tongue over teeth that have lengthened, sharpened, changed into something better suited to piercing flesh than before. A whisper from beside him makes him jerk up and search out its source. 

“ _ Why am I so cold? _ ” the voice is hauntingly, achingly familiar.  _ Jessamine _ . The clockwork heart lies beside him on the old mattress, and Corvo takes it into his hands reverently. 

“ _ What have they done to me? _ ” the heart whispers in the voice of his Empress, “ _ I am not alive— nor have I received the gift of death. _ ”

He wants so desperately to speak with her, hating suddenly that his voice has never worked, wonders if she would even understand him were he to find the strength to set her back down and speak to her with his hands, but how can he lay her back onto this filthy mattress, how can he lay her down anywhere, when her heart fits so perfectly in his hands. There is a pressure in his chest, like a bubble about to burst. He opens his mouth in a wordless cry.

Shock jolts through him, for while his cry is wordless, it is not  _ soundless _ . The pressure in his chest releases and where there has only ever been silence, soft notes rise up, haunting and mournful, music spills from his like oil. Wordless, but not meaningless. The notes sound nothing like words, but they  _ mean  _ something.

“ **_Jessamine_ ** .” Empress, love, loss, grief, a thousand feelings, everything her name invokes in him swept out in whalesong from the throat of a man or is it once-man now? The implications of the Outsider’s gifts are vague and tangled in myth and fear, and Corvo knew little of them before and he knows little of them now. He knows only that he has done another impossible thing in the long list of impossible things he has done in the past what feels like only hours. The heart in his hand beats, steadily, there is a glow behind the glass of the clockwork and the heart seems to warm in his hands. 

“ _ I can feel a great age ending, _ ” she whispers as he strokes a thumb delicately over the glass. Yes, an age is an ending, but with a sense of determination settling over him, Corvo knows he will usher in a new one. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter summary is quoted from the heart.


	3. Ritches to Rags, Witches and Rats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s an old woman on her balcony, tossing her things into the street. For a moment he sees the face of a beautiful young woman, but it is only a short moment, and she is nothing but an old woman once again. Old Granny Rags smiles at him with teeth that are at once perfectly straight and white and sharp, but yet also yellowed and crooked and dull.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I was going to follow the game's rune system. However, I decided that was less fun than just giving Corvo all of his powers off the bat and letting him figure them out on his own. I have also decided to give Corvo and all of the other Marked more powers than we are shown in the game. This is due in part to vampiric powers and in part to my having played Dishonored 2's New Game + like way too many times now because I am in love with how OP Corvo is with both his and Emily's powers combined. So, Corvo will have some of Emily's powers from Dishonored 2, not all of them, but some. Daud, when I decide what I actually want to do with him for this story, will have at least Semblance from DOTO, because if I'm giving Corvo cool extra powers, he might as well get to steal people's faces, plus whatever else I think to give him. These power boosts also include Granny Rags, who demonstrates at least one of her new abilities in this chapter. Vampires don't age.   
> **IMPORTANT: I will be doing some small edits to the first chapter to reflect the change regarding the absence of runes.**

It’s raining when they reach the Distillery District, fat drops that land on the lenses of his mask and slip off, whatever science Piero’s worked keeping the water from leaving streaks behind to hamper his vision. The mask still feels strange, the visage of death, cold metal and cloth concealing half of his face. He nods to Samuel once the man pulls the boat up to the shore, before climbing out and slinking for the shadows. Stealth had always come naturally to him, maybe because he’d always been silent, his voice motion instead of sound, his tread quiet, his hands quick. It’s strange and familiar now. The shadows are his friends, they always have been, but Corvo can see clearer in the dark now than ever before, and the shadows seem suddenly to reach for him just as he reaches for them. His steps are as quiet as a whisper as he sneaks down the street, the cerulean glow of the Outsider’s mark bleeding through the bandage he’d used to hide it as he used its strange new magic to Blink past guards and stay out of sight. He sees the rats scurrying about, can hear their little feet skittering on the stones, their little voices high pitched whispers that he suddenly understands, a little language all their own. They come up to him in the shadows, sniff at him, following as well as they can, chittering little greetings and random things, friendly in a way that he cannot help but find slightly disturbing knowing what a swarm of them can accomplish. 

“Hello, hello,” they chitter, “hello, hello, Shadow-Friend, hello, hello. Seen anything good to eat? We’re hungry, yes, yes, yes. There’s blood to drink and flesh to eat, yes, yes, yes. Hello, hello.” 

They’re strange little creatures and despite being unnerving, Corvo can’t help but tread carefully not to step on them. It’s strange how hearing something speak can change his opinion, but he can’t quite simply see them as vermin anymore, not when he can understand them. He’s drawn into a strange affection for them, their little voices childish and he feels as if he can reach out to them through the mark, touch their tiny childlike minds. He finds himself crooning his own quiet greeting to them in his new strange song-voice, as he makes his way down the street, the Heart cradled carefully in his hands, beating and guiding him towards some source of power, a shrine perhaps. 

“Ohhhh!” they twitter, “ohhhh! Pretty song, pretty sing-song. Hello, hello, Shadow-Song-Friend, hello, hello.”

His attention is drawn away from the excited chattering of the rats by the sound of things breaking and the muttering of a woman. There’s an old woman on her balcony, tossing her things into the street. 

“Garbage, garbage, garbage. All of it,” she mutters to herself.

Corvo watches her, feeling strangely drawn to her. There’s an aura about her, something not-quite-right, something that makes him think of the strange feel of the Void. For a moment he sees the face of a beautiful young woman, but it is only a short moment, and she is nothing but an old woman once again. Intrigued, he Blinks up onto the balcony behind her as she walks back inside. The way she disappears in a sharp burst of shadow startles him and he takes a wary step back. He can hear her muttering to herself below him, having apparently used her own sort of Blink to move downstairs. He spares a moment to puzzle over the room, is that a boat upside down and hooked to the ceiling— strange, but he ignores investigating it further and instead slips down the stairs. The old woman is in what might have once been a kitchen, muttering about the placement of the knives. He approaches her slowly and she whirls around to face him. 

“Is that you, my dear husband?” she says and he can see her eyes are milky and pale. She turns her head to the side shyly, “My eyes aren’t what they used to be. Have you seen my little birdies? The dear things must be starving without their Granny. Here birdies!” she clicks her tongue as she calls for them. There’s a sharp rapping at the door, so sudden that Corvo catches himself startling just a bit, so caught up in the strange aura of this old woman that he was neglecting his surroundings. 

“Oh, my my my I think I have gentleman callers again, but not the way I used to, not the nice ones. I hear them and they’re not very polite ones either. Granny Rags, Granny Rags, let us in!” her voice is mocking as she reaches behind into her back pocket and pulls out a key, “Ah well, they’ll go away again if they know what’s good for them, but what a bother. Here’s the key to the front door, love. You’ll see to those ruffians, won’t you?” she offers him the key and he takes it warily. The pounding on the door continues. He turns towards the sound, blinking his eyes while clenching his fist, the mark on his hand flaring with teal light. The rush of magic washes over him, and the color of the world around him shifts, another gift from the black-eyed god. He can see three glowing yellow figures outside the house. Opening the door and facing them is unnecessary, he can easily gain a greater advantage from upstairs on the balcony. Moments later he’s perched on the railing, looking down at the thugs below. Bottle Street Gang, it looks like. He watches them, listens as they complain about the old woman. There are multiple ways he could incapacitate them, drop down, choke out the one farthest from the door, then choke out the other one while putting a sleep dart in the third pounding on the door. It’s doable. He could also stay perched on the railing, hit them all with sleep darts while they’re distracted and confused, his hands are quick and the crossbow is designed to be easy to reload. But the longer he watches them, the more the pounding on the door becomes replaced with the pounding of their hearts. He could kill them. It would be so very easy. His sword is sharp, he can kill the two in the back by blade and the third with a crossbow bolt to the throat easily. But no, he doesn’t want to kill them, not like that, not messily. His teeth ache, his mouth waters, his stomach twists. Blade and bolts would spill their blood, waste it. And he’s so  _ hungry _ . Six months in Coldridge prison, surviving on nothing but pitiful and scarce meals, his body ravaged by malnutrition and torture. Free for less than twenty-four hours before he tasted the sweet nectar of the Outsider’s blood. No, he doesn’t want to kill these men, he wants to  _ feed _ . 

The first one’s neck snaps quick and easy, the second one’s too, the third is turning towards him now, alerted to Corvo’s presence by the sudden silence of his companions. His eyes widen, his hand reaches for his blade, but Corvo is fast, faster than he’s ever been, faster than is humanly possible. Barely a sound of surprise makes it out of the man’s throat before Corvo is on him, teeth piercing into the flesh of his neck, slamming the man into the door of Granny Rags house, pinning him there as he struggles against Corvo’s grip, but Corvo is stronger now too and the man’s struggles hardly phase him. He is lost in the taste of the man’s blood, warm and sweet on his tongue as it flows into his mouth, pumped out by the man’s stuttering heart. When the man runs dry, Corvo turns to his dead companions, hauling their dead bodies up to drink, first one then the other. Once he drops the last one back onto the ground, he turns back towards Granny’s house, the door is open and she’s watching him with those pale milky eyes. 

“Oh, my dear, I knew you would help me with those ill-mannered boys. My brave man. You’ll bring the bodies inside, won’t you dearie? My little birdies love leftovers and I’m too old to go dragging dead louts about.” Granny Rags smiles at him with teeth that are at once perfectly straight and white and sharp, but also yellowed and crooked and dull. 

Corvo can only nod to her numbly, somewhat shaken by the past few moments, the hunger that had come over him, the way his teeth pierced the flesh of the third man’s throat, the taste of their blood. All of it is new and overwhelming. He drags the bodies into the old woman’s house easily, mechanically, before being ushered back into the once kitchen and pushed towards a door. 

“Go on now dear, he’s waiting for you,” Granny Rags is pulling out wires and bones and knives from the cabinets beneath the sink. “Go on. I’ll be here when you’re finished with a nice present for all your help,” she looks at him with those strange eyes and makes a shooing gesture. “Go, go.”

He opens the door to a backyard bathed in purple light. The Heart, tucked into his coat over his own, beats frantically. He knows who is waiting for him and with a deep breath that he no longer needs, Corvo steps out to meet a god. After all, Corvo really doesn’t want to keep him waiting. 


End file.
